“Iambeing serious! Nothing says ‘strong woman’ like being named after a Tyrannosaurus Rex.”
Mom reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear—a gesture so familiar it’s written into my DNA. Her touch lingers on my cheek, and something warm and safe washes through me.
“What would you name her, Bella?” she asks, her voice softening.
I consider this, leaning back on my elbows and staring at the endless blue sky.
“Something pretty. Something that sounds like it belongs to someone who’d do important things.”
“Like Bella,” Mom says, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “My beautiful girl who’s going to change the world.”
I feel myself blush. At 15, I’m too old for this kind of mom-praise, but something in me soaks it up anyway, storing it somewhere deep and vital.
“Dad wanted to name me after a Jane Austen character,” I remind her. “Elizabeth or Emma or something.”
“Your father and his literature.” Mom laughs, rubbing her belly in slow circles. “He’d have every child named after someone who died tragically in a nineteenth-century novel if I let him.”
Julian, bored with name talk, starts digging in the sand with a plastic shovel. I watch him, feeling that familiar big-sister protectiveness wash over me.
“Hey, Mom?” I ask, suddenly serious. “How did you know Dad was… you know, the one?”
Mom’s eyes light up, and she leans back, a secretive smile playing on her lips.
“Oh, now that’s a question with a complicated answer.”
“I’ve got time,” I say, reaching for the water bottle in our beach bag.
“Well,” she begins, her voice taking on that storytelling quality I love, “it wasn’t one big moment. It was all these tiny moments strung together. Like how he always remembered which books I’d already read. Or how he’d make coffee for my study group during finals week without being asked.”
“That’s it? Coffee and books?”
Mom shakes her head, looking past me toward the water. “No, that’s not it. It was how safe I felt with him. Not just physicallysafe—though your father would move mountains to protect his family—but emotionally safe. Like I could be my whole, messy self, and he’d still look at me like I hung the moon.”
She turns back to me, suddenly serious. “That’s what you look for someday, Bella. Not grand gestures or fairy tales. Find someone who makes you feel safe enough to be exactly who you are. Who protects what matters to you because it matters to you.”
“Like how Dad taught me to shoot last month because I was scared after those break-ins down the street?”
Mom rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Yes, like how your literature professor father somehow knows how to handle firearms with military precision. One of his many mysteries.” She leans closer. “Just promise me you’ll remember that protection isn’t about control. The right person protects you while helping you stand on your own.”
Julian crawls over, dumping a handful of sand onto my legs.
“Bella! Sandcastle time!”
I start to brush the sand away, but a sudden pain slices through my temple—sharp, disorienting.
“Bella?” Mom’s voice sounds distant now, worried. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
The pain intensifies, throbbing behind my eyes. The beach seems to waver, the colors bleeding together. Mom reaches for me, but her hand passes through mine like smoke.
“Mom?” I try to grasp her fingers, but she’s fading.
Julian’s laughter turns hollow, echoing strangely. The sun dims. The waves freeze mid-crash.
“Don’t go,” I whisper, reaching for her again. “Please, don’t—”
Another stab of pain—blinding, white-hot. I feel myself falling backward, the beach dissolving around me.
Smoke. Thick and acrid. Burning my lungs.
